


Space

by paperclown



Category: GOT7
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:35:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclown/pseuds/paperclown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men stupidly in love negotiate the space that encompasses them and not talk about it. Or at least not talk about it in the scientific way because they are in love and stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Space

It was fairly late in the evening and the boys had all separated into their own space within the single-floor apartment of theirs. Space was limited for seven men, one manager, and a dog in this dormitory, for sure. Yet when vastness was experienced through blinding lights, roaring cheers, and an overwhelming sense of blind adoration, one learnt very quickly the relativity of space, though perhaps surely not enough to be considered valid for the scientific discipline, Jackson thought wryly. 

To be within and without, to be so complete and still so lacking, to be so special and yet completely ordinary… Jackson wasn’t sure sometimes if it would all fall apart one day. What exactly would though, he wasn’t sure. Besides, he had hardly any need nor time for this ruminating, did he? He shook those thoughts off and focused back on the many cue cards splayed out in front of him. A knock on the door of his room sounded before he could fully get into it, however. Jackson looked up from where he was sitting on the floor to find Jinyoung peering curiously into his room. 

"Mark-hyung isn't here?" he asked.

"Well, obviously," Jackson said deadpan, as he gestured grandly to the mess around him. “I know he is skinny, but I didn’t think he was that small.” 

Jinyoung smiled and shook his head in good humor. "Well, funny, that. Because I thought he would be here."

"Isn't he in the living room?"

Jinyoung raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in mock horror at that. “You mean you don’t know where he is?! Jackson!!”

Jackson tossed the highlighter pen he was holding back into the vicinity of the cue cards he was studying for this Friday and began to search for his phone. Jinyoung snickered as he watched Jackson rummage for his phone, the image quite not unlike an oversized rat scurrying through the dumpster. Though, in this case, it was the fairly considerable detritus of one young adult male working away from home. "You know," he said idly. "You really don't have that much reason to feel insecure."

"What are you talking about now?" Jackson asked, irritation clear in his voice as he followed the lighting cable to under the many cushions on his bed. 

"This,” Jinyoung said pointedly, “is supposed to be a room you share with Mark-hyung. Anyone who looks at it now knows that is complete bullshit. It's practically your room now, Jackson. And it’s becoming more and more like Mark-hyung is imposing on you for a space to sleep in."

"What?" Jackson started, his iPhone finally in his hand now and unhappy with the implications Jinyoung was making. "What on earth are you talking about? There's his stuff and his clothes right there!"

"Of which probably half of them are yours and half from the fans,” Jinyoung replied sedately, daring him to say otherwise.

"I can't help it if he doesn't have that much an opinion on clothes, right?"

Jinyoung snorted. "And your opinion on clothes is simply keeping as many pieces as you can in whatever space available, right?"

Jackson decidedly ignored the man by his doorway and pushed the speed dial on his phone. The ringing tone sounded and was picked up quickly; Mark must have been listening to music on his phone again.

"Where you at?"

"Outside," came the soft baritone voice.

"Outside, where?"

"Just outside. Why?"

"Jinyoung is looking for you," Jackson replied, not unsulkily. 

"Why?"

Jackson turned to the man who was still standing by the door and decided again to ignore the look of amusement on that handsome face. "Why are you looking for Mark?"

"Nothing,” Jinyoung shrugged. “I was just wondering if he wanted to watch a movie with me."

"No, he doesn't," Jackson answered promptly.

Jinyoung snorted and rolled his eyes as he left the doorway. “Of course, Jackson, of course.”

"I didn't realized I said anything," came Mark's wry voice through the speaker.

"You don't have to; I know you," Jackson said earnestly. "Where are you?"

Mark laughed. “And you just said you know me?” 

The silence that followed was not as amused, however. Mark sighed as he heard the unspoken demand. “I’m at the Han Gang.”

"Why didn't you call me?" Jackson accused. 

"You were busy?"

"Still?"

Mark sighed heavily this time. "Jackson, is there any point to this conversation? If not, shouldn't you go back to studying your script and preparing your cue cards or something?"

Jackson eyed the stapled booklet and then the mess around him. Unbidden and much too easily, the voice of Jinyoung echoed in his head. To his right, on what constitutes their dressing table laid the various bottle of cosmetics they used; five large bottles and all belonging to Jackson. To his left, packed tightly along the wall were boxes and boxes of his clothes, gifts from fans, and various miscellaneous items. These boxes took up a not small amount of space in their already tiny room and Jackson had an unpleasant sinking feeling as he realized that he did not know where Mark’s things were. 

“Jackson?” came Mark’s concerned voice as the silence took longer than usual.

“Mark,” Jackson said quietly. "Am I taking up too much space?"

"Sorry?" Mark asked, evidently perplexed. 

"Do you...do you feel suffocated by me?"

“What's this? I thought your script was about food.”

"Mark."

A loud exhale was heard through the speakers. "Jackson,” Mark called out, gently. “Stop thinking too much. I came out here because I didn't want to disturb you. You probably already know but I'm just here listening to music."

"Well, come back and listen to it beside me,” Jackson argued, petulantly.

"Baby, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I just miss you."

"I'll be back soon," Mark said, his voice still gentle and patient. 

"Did you bring your skateboard?"

"Yea."

"Can you go get me the cheese rolls on your way back?"

Mark chuckled at the request. "Of course."

"Thank you. I love you."

"I love you too. See you later."

Jackson hummed in reply as the phone line clicked dead. Setting his iPhone on the floor beside him, Jackson took in the entire room around him again. To be within a room and so without room, to be complete in person and yet grievously lacking, to be special to an audience but just an ordinary man in love… The thought of being so thoroughly conflicted terrified Jackson sometimes. It felt like a wide chasm between two large parts of him and that if he were not careful enough, all that he worked hard for will fall into this deep, dark abyss he couldn’t bridge. And he did not know how he would survive if Mark fell away into that darkness. There was no parry he could use, no right of way to be gained, and nothing for a feint – none, because there was no fight possible. Not when he would be completely shattered, the weight of Mark sinking pulling at the entire fabric of his world until it was completely torn into many tiny pieces… No, no, Jackson couldn’t. Jackson would simply cease to exist.

Yet where was Mark? ‘Where is Mark?!’ Jackson thought frantically for a moment. The top bunk bed was cluttered with soft toys and cushions from fans. The accessory tray was filled with his earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and rings. ‘Where was Mark’s?’ 

Jackson rose on his knees, his eyes roaming the entire expanse of their room hurriedly. “Mark, Mark, Mark,” he chanted out as he fingered each piece of clothes item that belonged to Mark. It wasn’t much, that was true, but it was there. And so were the caps. Each one of Mark’s cap were lined up neatly besides Jackson’s bigger pile. They didn’t account for much but it was there.

Jackson then took in the boxes of shoes they had stacked by the doorway. Mark had not developed the same appreciation as he did for dress shoes and naturally, Jackson numbered more in this department again. But there, in two columns of five boxes were Mark’s shoes. It was there.

Mark was there. Mark had not disappeared. Jackson had not chased him out with the amount of space he was taking. Mark was there. Mark was still there.

Jackson sat heavily onto his bed, feeling at once relieved and guilty. Relieved because, as he repeated to himself again, Mark was still there. Yet, guilty because had Jackson really thought so little of this man he proclaimed to love? Because why would Mark hesitate to tell him if it got too much? Why would Mark value Jackson so little as to not communicate with him if he was getting annoyed by the mess? Or by anything at all? Mark was quiet but by no means incommunicative. If something needed to be said, Mark would not hesitate. ‘Danho Mark,’ wasn’t that what they called him? 

The sounds of the front door opening startled Jackson out of his thoughts. Mark can be heard dragging his feet across the living room and laughing at a yipping Coco. “This is not yours, baby girl. Shouldn’t you already be sleeping?”

More shuffling sounds were heard along with the rustling of plastic bags. “Jackson,” he heard Mark called out from the living room. “I’ve got your cheese rolls here but don’t eat them in the room. I don’t really want any more bugs in there.”

“Jackson?” Mark called out again and upon hearing no reply, Mark sighed and walked towards their room. “Baby, are you okay?”

Jackson watched as Mark emerged slowly into his field of vision, iPhone and his earphones in one hand and the bag of cheese rolls in the other. Mark was wearing his gray hoodie and the simple black sweatpants he favored for dance practice. Mark’s eyes however, were wearing concern and a slight worry as he took in Jackson’s state. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly as he set his things on the top bunk and took his seat beside Jackson. 

“Nothing,” Jackson said, smiling slightly. “You were quick.”

Mark took Jackson’s hands into his and grinned cheekily. “What if I told you I already bought what you asked me to about half an hour ago before you called and was already on the way home?”

Jackson’s eyes crinkled into pretty crescents as he pecked at his boyfriend’s cheek. “I love you!” 

“I love you too,” Mark replied easily. “How is your preparation going?” 

Jackson shrugged. “It’s going.” 

“Hmm, want to talk about it?” 

“Not really,” Jackson said. He turned his hands in Mark’s grip and played with those beautiful fingers instead. “Where do you put your jewelry, Mark?”

“Eh?” Mark asked, though not completely surprised by the non sequitur (it was a common thing with Jackson). “I thought you knew.”

“I do?”

Upon seeing the confused face, Mark knew Jackson had not been paying attention the last time. “Come here,” Mark said, shaking his head in fond exasperation as he led the man up towards the box of pants Jackson no longer wore. 

Mark lifted up the top two pair of pairs to reveal the white Versace jewelry box. “We don’t really have any locked space and I didn’t want to leave this lying around either. And before I put it here, I told you to not be moving this box anywhere, remember?”

Jackson ogled at the luxurious white box laying atop his old clothes. “You put my expensive gift to you with my poopy pants??”

“Yea,” Mark said laughingly. “You no longer use these pants but you refuse to throw them out either. You are such a pack rat, Jackson,” he said teasingly. 

“But, but…” Jackson stuttered. “I… No, what about the rest? Your rings? Your earrings?”

“Oh, those? They are just there in that box behind your face toner and stuff.”

“Oh,” Jackson said, his voice coming out strangely. “I thought those were fan letters…”

Mark nodded as he observed his boyfriend carefully. “Yes, there were fan letters in there. Yours, to be exact, that is until you decided to keep them together with the others in that big box we have out in the living room.” Mark turned Jackson by the shoulders to face him completely. “Babe, are you alright? What happened?” 

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t know. I just…” He brought his arms to circle round Mark’s neck as he leaned heavily against the skinner man. “I just thought for a moment that you were gone. I don’t know why I thought that. It’s just… our room is so small and it’s such a mess, and Jinyoung said… And I just suddenly didn’t know where your things were. I couldn’t find you…” 

Mark tightened his arms around Jackson’s waist as he made a mental note to have a talk with Jinyoung about how his martial arts tricking training did not involve just fancy acrobatics. If necessary, Mark thought, a demonstration could be easily provided as well. 

“You are not thinking about killing Jinyoung, are you?” came Jackson’s muffled voice as he nuzzled into Mark’s neck. 

“No,” Mark lied.

Jackson laughed. “I’ve just been stressed lately, I guess. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now. You are here, and that’s all I care.”

Mark kissed the temple of the person currently clinging at him. “I’ll always be here, Jackson. You know that, right?”

“Yea.”

“No, Jackson, listen. Look at me,” Mark said and took in a huge lungful of air. He cupped Jackson’s face in both his hands and stared into those wide unblinking eyes. “I love you. I love you, okay? And I’m sorry I’m so useless at telling you that. I’m so sorry that I can’t give you the sense of security you need. I’m sorry I can’t seem to support you as much as you need. I’m sorry –”

“No, no, what are you saying,” Jackson interrupted. “What are you even –”

Mark shook his head roughly. “No,” he said in an anguished voice now. The thoughts he had collected as he sat in the cold breeze earlier thrummed against his ribs now, urgent and heavy. “And you know what I’m most sorry about, Jackson? I’m sorry that I’m so weak that I can’t even be the better man, that I can’t even let you go so that you might find someone better, someone more deserving of you. I can’t even do that because I love you. I love you so, so much and you don’t know it, Jackson. And I’m so, so sorry.” 

“What are you talking about?” Jackson asked in a soft voice, tears pooling in his eyes. “If you are sorry for all that, then what about me? Shouldn’t I be sorry for needing so much? For wanting too much but not giving? For always taking and taking and never once considering if you…” Jackson choked, unable to continue. 

Mark pulled him tight into his embrace, whispering a constant litany of ‘I love you’ onto every inch of Jackson’s face. Every plea fell soft and urgent against Jackson’s skin as he felt an enormous swell of emotions rise up within him. “Mark, Mark,” he called gently as he evaded that last kiss. “I’m kinda getting very emotional right now and I don’t want to cry anymore.” Then in a small embarrassed voice, “If I turn up with swollen eyes at the studio tomorrow morning, guess who will be coming after you?”

Mark snorted. “They wouldn’t dare,” he said, referring to their resident makeup artist. 

“Hmm,” Jackson mumbled as he drew small circles on the sleeves of Mark’s hoodie. “We should have sex now, though. It would totally lighten up the mood.” 

Mark laughed. “Sorry, but my ass can’t take that right now. I’ve got MAT training tomorrow, sweetheart.” 

“Well, you can use my ass.” 

“And you won’t be doing any nonsense flipping tomorrow?”

“Point,” Jackson said. “But we still can have sex. I miss having sex with you. I sometimes think I’m back in those days where pre-marital sex was such a terrible thing.”

A strange look passed Mark’s face. 

“What?” Jackson asked defensively. “It was a terrible thing, wasn’t it? Girls had to get married to the men who took their virginity, you know? Didn’t you watch at least one TVB period drama before? And you know there was this Korean drama a few years back, I think. People were in uproar over that pre-marital sex, remember??”

Mark halted Jackson’s rambling with a hand and asked, hesitantly, “We are getting married?”

“Eh?!” Jackson exclaimed, his eyes opened comically large. 

“Well,” Mark said, now impishly. “You did just refer to our getting intimate in bed as pre-marital sex.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ohhh,” Mark repeated mockingly. He raised his eyebrows at his flustered boyfriend. “So?” 

“Are we getting married?” Jackson asked in small voice.

“Do you want to get married?”

“Do you?” Jackson countered, his eyes now filled with equal parts fear and challenge.

Mark was not blind and neither was he unaware of what this meant. He smiled and caressed those round cheeks with his thumb. “Marry me, Gaga.”

And Jackson smiled, his face blooming into the brightest sunflower in summer. It was beautiful; Jackson was beautiful. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll marry you, Yien.”

“Though,” Jackson said cheekily as he stopped Mark from leaning in to kiss him. “I still do want a proper proposal, okay. Flowers, ring, expensive dinner, and all of that.”

Mark laughed, a high-pitched giggle that Jackson was so incurably fond of. “I’ll do my very best, my dear fiancé.” 

And then Mark leaned in, swallowing that cute banshee laughter from Jackson, swallowing his beauty, his handsomeness, swallowing also the fears, the insecurities, and the dark shadows that plagued Jackson’s heart so much; Mark swallowed them all. He wanted them all. He wanted this man so completely that between every two particles that made up Jackson’s entirety, Mark wanted one of his in there. 

But it was sickeningly impossible. There was so much standing between them that each look they gave had to be furtive, each hand caress a hidden gesture, and each embrace they took to be offset with a larger one to another member of their group. It was the very nature of their job, Mark understood. But when they stood as seven in the blinding bright lights of the performing stage, or when they eased to a relaxed camaraderie in front of the cameras, Mark had no greater desire than to turn to Jackson, to hold his hand, to smile and say, ‘Yes, darling, we did it, together.’ But, no. 

No, because this ‘together’ had to be selectively presented to the audience. No, because ‘together’ had to be a vision of seven or a loose mingling of dyads, a play of favorites and petty jealousy. No, because ‘together’ could not be that feeling of rightness when their fingers meld perfectly against each other. No, because ‘together’ could not be that sense of homecoming whenever they found themselves reflected in the other’s eyes. No, because ‘together’ could not be that overwhelming love that wrecked their composure when they took in the beauty of the person who so held their world, together. No, that ‘together’ could not be shared.

No one could know how Mark fitted himself around Jackson and his ever-expanding beauty. No one could know how Jackson revolved around Mark and his unwavering sense of loyalty. No, no one could, because like the gravitational collapse that births a star, this was their love, shining, bright, burning, and dangerous. And no one could understand. No one, they were warned, should know how hopelessly, foolishly, and disgustingly in love they were with each other. 

And in some mad fantasy of his, Mark imagined they were both so complexly intertwined that their heartbeats were synced, in tandem, no matter the distance that separated them, no matter the time and age, no matter, no matter; that even when they were long gone from these physical bodies, they would still remain together, be it sleepy in a plain dull rock or weightless in the tiny specks of dust that float up in the warm gentle sunlight… Be it in the songs that unite their breaths, or the space that was heavy with longing; be it today or tomorrow. It was all no matter. Because they would be together, always. Forever.

“I love you,” Mark whispered against those plush red lips. “I love you.”

And Jackson kissed back against those petal soft redness. “I know,” he said, smilingly, brightly. “I know.”

And I love you too.

**Author's Note:**

> Premise of the story was inspired by the mess that was the Markson's room as shown in the Taste of Others series. Everything else was inspired by the obvious play of push and pull, the one-moment-close-and-the-next-distant (or awkward) dynamics that characterize the Markson's relationship in front of the cameras. Read whatever you might into it but this is my interpretation. Hope it at least rock some boats out here. Cheers!
> 
> P.S. Also, if you have read Mt. 8 of my Stellar Collision series, you would have noticed that I'm possibly just this slightly obsessed with cosmology. And in the most embarrassingly amateurish ways. Apologies all around!


End file.
